The False Gods eBook

Her back was toward him; so, cautious and catlike,
he stole from behind the veil and glided to the shelter
of a post not ten feet from her. He peered around
it eagerly. Still panting from her efforts, she
was on her knees beside the case, fumbling a key in
the Yale lock, a curious anachronism which Simpkins,
in his cleaning, had found on all the more valuable
mummy cases.

The lid was of sycamore wood, comparatively light,
and she lifted it without trouble. Then the rays
of the lamp shone full into the open case, and Simpkins
looked over the shoulders of the kneeling woman at
the mummy of a man who had stood full six feet in life.
He stared long at the face, seeking in those shriveled
features a reason for the horror which grew in him
as he gazed, trying to build back into life again that
thing which once had been a man. For there was
something about it which seemed different from those
Egyptians of whom he had read. Slowly the vaguely-familiar
features filled out, until Simpkins saw—­not
the swarthy, low-browed face of an Egyptian king,
but the ruddy, handsome face of an Englishman, and—­at
last he was sure, a face like that of a photograph
in his pocket. And in that same moment there went
through his mind a sentence from the curious picture
letter: “That thing that I have to do
is about done.”

Already, in his absorption, he had started out from
the shelter of the pillar, and now he crept forward.
He was almost on her, and she had heard nothing, seen
nothing, but suddenly she felt him coming, and turned.
And as her eyes, full of fear in the first startled
consciousness of discovery, met his, he sprang at her,
and pinioned her arms to her side. But only for
a moment. Fear fought with her, and by a mighty
effort she half shook herself free.

[Illustration: “Suddenly she felt him coming,
and turned.”]

Simpkins found himself struggling desperately now
to regain his advantage. Already his greater
strength was telling, when the lamp crashed over,
leaving them in darkness, and he felt the blow of a
heavy body striking his back. Claws dug through
his clothes, deep into his flesh. Something was
at his head now, biting and tearing, and the warm
blood was trickling down into his eyes. A stealthy
paw reached round for his throat. He could feel
its silken surface passing over his bare flesh, the
unsheathing of its steel to strike, and, as it sank
into his throat, he seized it, loosening, to do this,
his hold on Mrs. Athelstone, quite careless of her
in the pain and menace of that moment.

Still clutching the great black cat, though it bit
and tore at his hands, he gained his feet. In
the darkness he could see nothing but two blazing
eyes, and not until the last spark died in them did
his fingers relax. Then, with a savage joy, he
threw the limp body against the altar of Isis, and
turned to see what had become of Mrs. Athelstone.
She lay quite still where he had left her, a huddled
heap of white upon the floor.